


The Law of Conservation of Mass

by thirium goddess (sweetbabydean)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 12:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20564693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetbabydean/pseuds/thirium%20goddess
Summary: I thought about cutting myself and instead of doing that, I wrote a fic about it.





	The Law of Conservation of Mass

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with 60, or Cyberlife Tower Connor, in mind. But honestly could work with any pairing you want? The only description the male counterpart has is that he’s wearing loafers, so whatever floats your boat!

There’s a mess. 

On the floor, on the bed, on _her_. He’s always said red looked good on her, and she thinks of how pretty the color looks as it pools onto the wood. He might be home any minute; she’s lost track of time and her eyes are blurry. Her nose drips and she wipes at it, smearing red and snot all over her blotchy face.

Breaths don’t come easy and she sounds a bit like a strangled cat— she tries to laugh, she and the analogy kitty have something in common. The bath is running, likely over-flowing a bit but she hopes he won’t be mad. She crawls over to the bath on her hands and knees, slinging more red in her wake.

Her wrists hurt — god, they **burn**— but it’s dull in comparison to the pain she feels inside. Like claws wrapping around the edges of her fragile organs and squeezing until they burst. Crawling inside the tub is no easy feat, and the water crests over the edges, washing away all the lines of her. The water is warm — for better circulation — but she’s sure they didn’t mean when you had open wounds. Though, she’s never been the sharpest tool.

Open wrists stain the water burgundy, pretty in its morbidity. Her head aches, but the water is comforting and she refuses to leave its warm caress. She’d put on her prettiest nightgown for this, the silk one that never failed to give her feelings that she surely didn’t deserve to have. For a brief moment she’s wonders if he’ll be angry — or if all the ugly words will ring true.

The last one makes her feel less guilty about the mess, but she’s sure he’ll have the maids clean it up anyway. Her eyesight has turned grey-scale and she thinks he calls her name, but she’s tired and can’t hear much of anything. By the time he finishes his routine, there likely won’t be any her left.

She’s heard people say that dying alone would be awful and miserable. She doesn’t feel either one of those emotions as her breaths fade out. There’s a lot of contentment. Warmth. Then eventually, just black.

The few minutes her soul lingers, translucent in its haze, are likely the weirdest. The hardest too. She recognizes the panic in his face, the sheer agony her soul feels at the red-stained water ruining his loafers. Even in her death, she’s worried about his appearance rather than her own well being.

He’s shouting and all she can do is shake her head, funny how someone so put together can fall apart so easily. She hadn’t even known she’d meant enough to him for him to care, honestly. She runs her fingers through his hair, takes pity on him finding her like that — wrists cut precisely and nightgown stained watery-red. But she doesn’t regret her decision, not one bit, so she won’t correct him when he cries about how selfish she is.

A light shines and calls her name and she follows, wet toes slapping against the tiles. For moment she looks back and it’s like they make eye contact. She smiles at him, because she’s happy now, even though he clearly cannot be. And she leaves, ascending or descending, she does not know. Maybe merely just being. Body gone and its shame gone with it, but her presence still lingering.

For matter can be neither created nor destroyed.


End file.
